The Shape of Ghosts

***Blackthorn***

The harbor at Galdren was quiet when we came in, fog crawling low across the water like something half-alive. The sun hadn’t yet risen, just a faint bleed of gray on the horizon. The town was still asleep, the smell of brine and smoke mixing in the damp air. The Black Serpent cut through the stillness, her hull scorched and scarred from years of neglect. She groaned like a wounded beast when we anchored. I ran my hand along the railing, feeling the rot beneath the salt. She was a shadow of herself. She deserved better. So did I.

“Captain?” a sailor asked quietly behind me.

The men were cautious now, every word weighed before spoken.

“Shall we start unloading the cargo?”
“Leave it,” I said. “We stay the night. The ship stays here.”

The sailor nodded and hurried off, grateful to have been dismissed. I looked back once, toward the stern, where Isabella stood with the child in her arms. She was wrapped in one of the spare cloaks, her hair tangled, her eyes fixed somewhere I couldn’t follow. She hadn’t spoken since the night before. Not a word. Just silence, the kind that doesn’t end. Good. Silence suited her. I turned away and stepped down the gangplank onto the dock. The planks creaked beneath my boots. The port smelled of fish, old ale, and dying dreams. Nothing like the great harbors I’d once raided. It would do. I needed men. Wood. Paint. Rope. Anything that could make the Serpent mine again. I found a builder’s shop before the sun broke through the clouds. The man inside looked up from his bench, squinting through the gloom.

“Morning,” he said, cautious. “You lookin’ for work or trouble?”
“Neither,” I said. “I’m looking to rebuild.”

He studied me, eyes drifting to the cut of my coat, the sword at my side.

“A ship?”

I gave a slow nod.

“The Black Serpent. She’s anchored out in the fog. You’ll take a team aboard. You’ll strip her to her bones and restore her to what she was. I’ll pay in gold, and I’ll gut you if you touch what’s mine.”

The man swallowed hard and nodded.

“Aye, Captain.”

Good. Fear was faster than loyalty. By the time I returned to the docks, the fog had thinned. Isabella was still on deck, her daughter pressed to her chest. I saw her whisper something, soft, private. The girl’s hand reached for the air, catching the light that broke through the clouds.

“Bring them ashore,” I told Mauve as I passed. “We’ll stay at the inn until the work is done.”

She hesitated, glancing toward Isabella.

“She won’t want to go.”
“She doesn’t have a choice.”

Mauve gave a short nod.

“Aye, Captain.”
****
The inn crouched at the edge of the harbor like a tired beast. Its roof sagged beneath the weight of salt and time, the wood warped from decades of storms. Lanterns burned low, casting amber light across the sign that swung in the cold sea breeze, *The Wayward Gull*. Fitting. My boots struck the planks hard as I crossed the threshold, the room falling silent behind me. Sailors, merchants, thieves, they all looked up. There’s a quiet kind of fear that follows a name long buried, and though none of them said a word, I saw it in their eyes. They didn’t know who I was, only that they shouldn’t ask. The innkeeper was a broad woman with weathered hands and a face that might once have been kind.

“Evenin’,” she said carefully. “Rooms?”
“Ten,” I said. “Nine for my men, one for me and my wife.”

Her gaze slid past me to where Isabella lingered near the doorway, clutching the girl tight against her chest. Her hair was tangled, her face pale from the voyage, but she still carried that stubborn grace, the kind that had once made kings look twice. The innkeeper’s brow lifted. A small silence followed. I could hear the faint creak of the floorboards as the crew shifted behind me, waiting for what I’d say next. The innkeeper hesitated, then reached for the brass keys on the wall.

“Aye, Captain. One room. One bed.”
“It’ll do,” I said, though I had no intention of sleeping.

I dropped a few gold coins on the counter. They hit the wood with a satisfying weight, and greed replaced hesitation in her eyes.

“Second floor,” she said quickly. “End of the hall. I’ll have water brought up.”

I nodded once and turned.

“Mauve, see the crew settled. Keep them close. No one leaves port till I say so.”

Mauve gave a short nod.

“Aye, Captain.”

She turned to bark orders at the men, her voice sharp as iron. I didn’t look at Isabella until we’d reached the stairs. The child whimpered softly in her arms, that small, pitiful sound that made the air feel too tight. Isabella avoided my eyes, her steps cautious, shoulders stiff. She moved like a ghost who feared to disturb the living. The room at the end of the hall was small, low-ceilinged, and smelled faintly of damp wood and old ale. One bed, one chair, a washbasin by the window. A cracked mirror on the wall reflected the weak glow of the single candle I lit.

“This will do,” I muttered.

Isabella didn’t answer. She crossed to the far wall, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, the baby still wrapped in her arms. Her silence was louder than any protest.
I took the chair and sat, my back to the door, facing her. The candlelight flickered across her face, catching the dark rings beneath her eyes. She looked nothing like the woman who once stood beside me in fine silks and jewels, the bride I’d bought. That woman was gone, buried somewhere beneath the ashes of her new life.

“This is where you wanted to end up, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice low. “Running from one man only to fall back into the hands of another.”

She looked up then, anger flashing through the exhaustion.

“I never wanted any of this.”
“No,” I said, leaning forward. “You wanted love. You wanted comfort. You wanted my brother.”

Her lips trembled, but she said nothing. The baby stirred and began to cry, a sharp, small wail that cut through the room.

“Quiet her,” I ordered.

She turned away from me, rocking the child gently until the cries softened into small hiccups. Her hand trembled as she brushed a lock of hair from the girl’s face. The candlelight caught on her ring, the same gold band I’d once placed there myself. I felt the old bitterness coil tight in my chest.

“I never loved you. I bought you, like I bought my ship. Like the Serpent, you’ll serve your purpose until I decide otherwise.”

Isabella’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry. She’d learned not to, long ago.

“You can chain me to your ship, Blackthorn. You can burn my home to the ground. You’ll never have what you think you’ve lost.”

I stood. The chair creaked as it scraped the floor.

“I’ve already taken it.”

She flinched when I stepped closer, not out of fear, but instinct. I reached past her, not touching her, only blowing out the candle. The room sank into darkness.

“Get some rest,” I said. “We sail when the Serpent is reborn.”